To Avoid Rejection, Take the Writer Out of the Story

Today’s guest post is by editor and author Joe Ponepinto (@JoePonepinto).


An admission: As I read my way through the submission queue for our literary journal, I often decide to decline a story well before its end.

It’s not that the stories are always bad. Many times the premise is interesting, and the characters as well. It may exhibit the opening tension and stakes that can pull a reader in. In fact, there may not be anything technically missing from the submission, and this proficiency is supported by the writers’ cover letters—many submitters have been published in other journals; some are contest winners or Pushcart nominees.

But for me, the stories they’ve submitted just don’t resonate.

So it’s a matter of taste, then?

Sometimes, but more often it’s something else. It’s a quality that can’t be measured or pinpointed, and I think that’s why it’s an aspect of good writing that is rarely taught in MFA programs, or writing classes, and almost never mentioned in blogs and articles on writing. Call it something ethereal. Call it alchemy. Or call it what it is, a story so advanced that it is no longer just a story, but something beyond a story—a virtual reality that transports a reader into a frame of mind vivid enough to replace actual reality. It’s a story so engrossing the reader forgets that he’s reading, a story in which the author’s voice seems not to exist. A silent story, as a writer friend once noted.

So many times stories give me the impression of a writer writing about something. It’s in the story’s tone and flow. It’s in the plot that’s been done a few thousand times before, or is based on something that’s in the news. It’s in characters filtered through the writer’s personal experience, which limits their diversity and individuality. In short, the writer is present in every sentence, hunched over the reader’s shoulder, which is why so much in these stories sounds like explanation, like the writer worrying that readers won’t “get it” unless they lay out paragraphs of background info. As Elmore Leonard famously said, it sounds like writing.

As I read these submissions, I can visualize the writer thinking about aspects of writing as he writes. Does this scene have tension? Is it making my theme clear?

But a successful story exists independently from its author. It seems so real that readers don’t have to be schooled in the facts of the story’s world, but can, through the actions and dialogue of its characters, adapt and understand how it works. Kind of like the way we do it in real life.

Here’s an example of what appears to be decent writing, but falls short of resonating with an experienced editor:

Like hundreds of times before, Barry Jacobs watched the signals on the subway wall as the train glided under his Brooklyn neighborhood. The car rocked in rhythm with the tracks below, but the gentle swaying did little to put him at ease, even after almost ten years of traveling the L line to his office in Manhattan. This time, Madeline, the new supervisor, would be waiting for him.

“We’ll be making some changes. I’ve been working on them for a while,” she’d said. “I want to restructure how projects are assigned.”

He realized her position of newfound authority forced her to do this. She had to show the upper management she had a vision for the department’s future in order to gain their respect. He knew it was going to cause trouble for him.

This opening establishes tension and stakes, plus a hint of intrigue in Madeline’s statement about changes, which are still unspecified. Barry seems to be a sympathetic character. We are beginning to learn how he feels about his job. In terms of writing conventions this a good approach.

But here’s how an editor can read it:

The first paragraph is good. The second is also fine, although an editor may notice that Madeline’s statements are factual and don’t indicate subtext, which is the key to understanding character motivation. They are really there to provide grounding for the opening situation. It’s not a major error on the writer’s part, but this passage could do more.

In the third paragraph, though, note how the writer drops into the character’s head to ostensibly reveal both Madeline’s and Barry’s motivation. On the surface it appears to deepen the reader’s understanding of character. The character may even be thinking these things. But in fact it’s an explanation planted by the writer to help ensure the reader “gets” who these people are. It also begins to break away from that opening tension.

As an editor, I can see what’s coming next. It’s usually at this point that a less experienced writer will dive into backstory, relating how Barry came to work at his company, or how Madeline rose to lead her department, or both. And that’s the road to decline.

Jorge Luis Borges, in his “Borges and I,” broaches the idea of the writer and the person as different people. A good writer is like that; when writing she becomes someone other than the person. She becomes the writer, an alter ego who doesn’t care whether the reader loves the story. The writer cares only about the story itself, and not the recognition it might bring. That’s what editors are looking for when they read submissions—the story, not the writer. Also consider this interview with Elena Ferrante, the Italian writer whose true identity remains unknown. She not only talks about the separation of the writer and the author, she lives it.

How do you get to that place in your writing? It’s not easy. You have to internalize the conventions of creative writing so that you know them without thinking about them. That might mean writing almost daily for about 10 to 15 years. It takes that long for your brain to synthesize the conventions and possibilities of writing into something relatable to others (and, by the way, to break the terrible writing habits most of us were taught in elementary school, high school, and college—the ones that forced us to explain ourselves in every sentence). That’s when you get to stop worrying about them.

Then, every once in a while, ask yourself why you write. Is it to become well-known or make money? Or is it because you have stories that must be told? Editors are far more interested in submissions from the latter type of writer.

Every story you write is a step toward better writing. Every publication you achieve is encouragement to keep going. This I know—I’ve had dozens of stories published in literary journals, and each one was an ego boost. But looking back on most of them now, I realize they were not that good. Many don’t illustrate the qualities I’m talking about here. But some do, and I take that as a sign of progress, the promise that my writing is going to keep getting better as long as I continue to work at it. Yours is too. But you have to know where you’re trying to get to before you can go there.

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Dave Malone

Thank you for writing this, Joe. Incredibly spot-on. 

Joyce Reynolds-Ward

As someone who’s edited a couple of genre anthologies, first of all, the biggest problem I see with the example is that it tells us what is happening and doesn’t draw us in! We’re in Barry’s head as he thinks, but we don’t have an inciting incident. We’re starting waaaay before the actual story starts, and that’s why the story doesn’t come to life. We need to see the confrontation between Barry and Madeline at the opening.

This isn’t necessarily a literary vs commercial fiction distinction as I’ve read plenty of good literary stories that start where the story actually begins, instead of ruminating. Some people may consider “show us, don’t tell us” to be a cliche…but this example demonstrates why the cliche exists.

Rachel Thompson

The example above is also ridden with clichés. The scene and the images it conveys are all too familiar. That snatch of dialogue is also unconvincing.

S.D. McKinley

“Call it alchemy. Or call it what it is, a story so advanced that it is no longer just a story, but something beyond a story—a virtual reality that transports a reader into a frame of mind vivid enough to replace actual reality. It’s a story so engrossing the reader forgets that he’s reading, a story in which the author’s voice seems not to exist. A silent story, as a writer friend once noted.” Yes! In my continual journey to discover things about writing, this passage helps me more than a lot of things. Thank you.

Wendy Allott

This is such a great reminder for me. As I began to chase publication for my work, I found that the joy of writing, of creating worlds, was diluted. Instead of enjoying the story, of creating something, I was fixated on hitting all the technicalities of writing, and riddled with self-doubt. And now I have stepped back from writing all together. I’m going to save this and reread it, because I think it points to a quality of writing, and being a writer, I hadn’t considered fully.

da-AL

I feel the same way, Wendy – Jane & Joe, many tx for this

Joe Ponepinto

Thanks to everyone who commented. I’m glad some people took the advice to heart. And thanks to Jane Friedman for running the piece!

Candice Jarrett

Insightful article, thank you so much for sharing! I especially loved this part “Call it something ethereal. Call it alchemy. Or call it what it is, a story so advanced that it is no longer just a story, but something beyond a story—a virtual reality that transports a reader into a frame of mind vivid enough to replace actual reality.” Perfectly stated. As a reader, these are the books I want to live inside. As a writer, this is certainly something to aspire to. Thanks again!

RoseMary Griffith

Timely for me to read as I fight through chapter after chapter trying to make my story point, but make it about the story and not about me! Thanks for the article.

PJ Reece

Thanks, Joe… this is something to think deeply about, to discuss at critique groups, to blog about, to never forget. To worry about! I’m worried that my current work in progress fails the test. Fortunately it’s ‘in progress’ and I have no deadline and I love living in my story and I feel excited about reviewing it with your comments in mind. I feel you’ve hit the old nail on the head with this post … and so it’s energized me. What am I doing writing this comment … I should be rewriting! Warm regards from the west coast north of you. ~ PJ Reece

Joe Ponepinto

Thanks, PJ. You bring up another important aspect of good writing—having a critique group that knows good writing is more than the nuts and bolts of characterization, rising tension, etc.

Gretchen Cherington

Thanks for this Sunday morning insight. It helps explain why it took me 20 years to write my first book. What I know is that it wasn’t until the last two years when I truly felt like I was the orchestrator of the characters on the page (mine is memoir) and not one of them. As a memoirist it was a nearly weird but wonderful feeling. Would you have further comments related to memoir or NF? Thanks!

Joe Ponepinto

For memoir*, or for first-person F or NF, my advice is to remember that your protagonist must engage the world in which she lives. I see a lot of first-person writing in the submission queue, and too often it’s very self-centered. “I thought this,” “this happened to me…” But what does that offer to your reader? I wrote a blog about this back in May, if you’re interested, called “The Problem with “I”.” It’s here: https://orcalit.com/2020/05/01/the-problem-with-i/
*Unless the memoir is more like a diary, and meant not for public reading.

MARIA D'MARCO

Finally! An article that doesn’t talk about the mechanics of writing, but about the soul!

As an editor, I often spot the writer’s mind, not the story, within the first 50-100 words. My rule is to read the first 3 pages at least, but too often the material becomes cardboard in the mouth on the first page.

I work with writers who are so stuck in their concern of ticking off all the do’s and don’ts of writing that they create tangled prickly bushes ’round all their material.

Joe, this is such a breath of fresh air — wonderful article! Thank you for sharing…

Joe Ponepinto

You’re singing the same song as I, Maria. Thanks. Like you I see the writer’s hand in many stories in the first couple of paragraphs. Who wants to read a story that’s all mechanics and no soul?